called his trouble by that offensive name. Then he straightened himself
in the saddle. Yes, welcome the cold weight against his chest, welcome
the silence, the blankness, the dead, ashen pallor of the fog!

But just where the tan ride, leading down across the road to the left
diverges from the main road, this source of negative consolation began
to fail him. For a draw of fresher air came from westward, causing the
blurred, wet branches to quiver and the pall of mist to gather, and
then break and melt under its wholesome breath, while the rays of the
laggard sun, clearing the edge of the fir forest, eastward, pierced it,
hastening its dissolution. Therefore it followed that by the time
Richard rode in under the stable archway, he found the great yard full
of noise and confused movement. The stable doors stood wide along one
side of the quadrangle. Stunted, boyish figures shambled hither and
thither, unwillingly deserting the remnants of half-eaten breakfasts,
among the iron mugs and platters of the long, deal tables of the
refectory. Chifney and Preiston--the head-lad--hurried them, shouting
orders, admonishing, inciting to greater rapidity of action. And the
boys were sulky. The thick morning had promoted hopes of an hour or two
of unwonted idleness. Now those poor, little hopes were summarily
blighted. Lazy, pinched with cold by the raw morning air, still a bit
hungry, sick even, or downright frightened, they must mount and
away--the long line of race-horses streaming, in single file, up the
hillside to the exercising ground--with as short delay as possible, or
Mr. Chifney and his ash stick would know the reason why.

There were elements of brutality in the scene from which Richard would,
oftentimes, have recoiled. To-day he was selfish, absorbed to the point
of callousness. If he remarked them at all, it was in bitter welcome,
as he had welcomed the chill and staring blankness of the fog. He was
indifferent to the fact that Chifney was harsh, the horses testy or
wicked, that the boys' noses were red, and that they blew their purple
fingers before laying hold of the reins in a vain attempt to promote
circulation. Dickie sat still as a statue in the midst of all the
turmoil, the handle of his crop resting on his thigh, his eyes hot from
sleeplessness and wild thoughts, his face hard as marble.--Unhappy?
Wasn't he unhappy too? Suffer? Well, let them suffer--within reasonable
limits. Suffering was the fundamental law of